Chapter 7
At half past noon, he realises that to wait for her is an agony he did not know to expect.
Although he had instructed her to come through the floo, he finds himself pacing behind his desk and glancing outside the windows in unwitting attempts to spot her arrival through the glass. On his fifth turn past the blank, bothersome snowscape, he notices Dumbledore’s eyes blink open in his portrait, and so turns to face the fireplace.
He has no time nor patience for his mentor’s musings.
Perhaps she is running late, however unlikely that would be given her penchant for punctuality. He remembers her curiosity, certain that it is the driving cause behind her interest in his project. In fact, he is counting on it.
Seconds later, the flames finally turn green, and a witch who does not resemble the Hermione Granger of old stumbles onto his carpet. His long-suppressed sense of courtesy makes an appearance, and he lunges to prevent her fall. Grasping her wrist, she adjusts her footing and leans into him.
Seconds pass; all is still as the link between his mind and his senses severs. The tips of shiny, tan dragonhide oxfords peek from beneath her cloak, before disappearing as she stands. Just like him, her breath catches, and he scents citrus, plum, and papyrus when her curls drop to obscure his vision.
“I’m so sorry!” she exclaims, looking up at him with chocolate eyes. For the first time since war’s end, he slams down his Occlumency shields and steps away.
“No harm.” Withdrawing again to stand behind his desk, he braces himself at the speculative glimmer in Albus’ eyes. The portrait remains silent, however, as he magicks the soot off his fingertips and faces her again.
“Miss Granger, thank you for accepting my invitation.”
“Please, call me Hermione, since we will be working together–” she says, then shakes her head– “I hope that is not too grand of an assumption, sir–”
“It is not.” Gesturing at the sitting area across from his desk, he waits until she removes her cloak and sits before sitting down himself. “And please, call me Severus. We have much to discuss.”
She smiles and leans forward, as though eager to move past the pleasantries. It seems that she appreciates his directness. “We do. I am intrigued by the potion you are working on.”
“It is one I have been working on for years. With my… duties… I had been unable to dedicate proper resources to potion-making.”
“Of course! I don’t come across potions ingredients much in my work, although the healing aspects of some we didn’t come across at Hogwarts are quite impressive. Aloe vera, for example, is particularly interesting. Although not readily available in the UK, and I’m sure you easily source your ingredients—”
Steepling his hands, he observes her removing a notebook from her satchel. “Miss Granger– Hermione. While I… salute… your interest in this potion, I am past the challenges of formulating the potion. It is ready, for all intents, it is the purpose that needs some work.”
Her face falls, and something in him lurches at her reaction to his brusque rejection of her opinion. Before he can Occlude, he answers. “Aloe vera was indeed an ingredient I considered, although not the gel as it had limited alterations. The thorns, however—”
“Oh, how obvious! I would not have thought of that.”
Ignoring the implied slight, he tilts his head. She sits back in her chair and shuts the notebook. “You mentioned being in the experimentation phase?”
“Yes. The potion’s universality is proving elusive, therefore, it stands to reason that experimenting on a wide range of wounds is the way forward. Given the situations where this potion will be necessary, I would prefer not to grant hope for healing and then not give it.”
“Certainly, although I cannot say that your altruistic motives are a surprise,” she says with a lopsided grin.
As though they share a secret.
Hackles raising, he wonders at this Gryffindor fate has foisted on him. His Occlumency is failing him; a lick of anger creeps up his neck, but he attempts to tamp it down into a frown.
“How very Slytherin of you, Hermione, to use a compliment as a disguise for—”
He pauses upon seeing her expression, and realises that his exclamation had been growled at her. Trepidation wrinkles her forehead, and remorse clouds her eyes as she waits for him to dress her down. This is what it has come to– failing to control himself around the woman magic has wished upon him as his soulmate.
Relaxing his shoulders and widening his eyes from the slits they have become, he presses his lips together. When he does not say anything else, she shifts in her seat. He ought to apologise, to take back his abrupt resort to House prejudices, and as the Headmaster of Hogwarts as well.
Her disappointment rises in waves through the space between them, and he braces himself for her departure. At Minerva’s customary dismay at his actions, and his looming solitude.
At a life without Hermione in it; not that he ever had her, but the possibility—
“My apologies, I didn't mean that to come across as malicious. I suppose you’d like to see my scars now? Then I’ll get out of your hair.”
Looking around the office at the portraits observing them, she inhales deeply and starts to unbutton her shirt, refusing to meet his eyes or glance in his general direction.
Fuck.